


promise to be true

by sanzuh



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Detective!Jon, F/M, undine!Sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29150988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanzuh/pseuds/sanzuh
Summary: Late entry for Jonsa New Year Drabbles Day 6 LuckHe rubs his beard. "Mrs. Hardyng, were you aware your husband was having an affair?"She stiffens, but answers without missing a beat. "Yes." Those scorned by dead spouses usually try to lie when first confronted with that ugly truth, but she just sits there, a beautiful tragedy with a sad smile on her face and fire in her eyes.Undines are almost invariably depicted as being female, and are usually found in forest pools and waterfalls. [...]  Although resembling humans in form, they lack a human soul, so to achieve mortality they must acquire one by marrying a human. Such a union is not without risk for the man, because if he is unfaithful, then he is fated to die.FromWikipedia
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 21
Kudos: 149
Collections: Jonsa New Year Drabbles





	promise to be true

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Queenofthebees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenofthebees/gifts).



> Listen, I know this one exceeds drabble length quite outrageously, but I couldn't help myself. I wanted to post something for _Luck_ , and since I'm not really feeling the entry I'd planned for that prompt, I decided to write this instead. 
> 
> I'll gift it to you in the hope that you'll accept it despite my inability to stick to the rules 😅

Jon gulps as the new widow is led into the interrogation room. _Just my luck,_ he scoffs mentally. She's a redhead, her hair a deep, glossy auburn that has him wondering what it would feel like to run his fingers through it, and on top of that she's that exact type of woman who makes him feel utterly inadequate. It doesn't take long for him to decide he loathes everything about her, from her hair that's coiffed to perfection, over the simple but expensive cut of her black dress, to her impeccably manicured nails and even her immaculately cultivated walk--just enough of a sway to her hips to entice, but not as much to be considered vulgar.

He hates encounters with this type of women. They always make him feel like a bumbling fool, a hint of angry resentment to the disdain he pretends to feel for them, and worse than that, they make him yearn for something that will never be his.

His feelings are only acerbated when he meets the blue of her perfectly innocent eyes. He needs to take care, he's already in danger of drowning in those eyes. She's his perfect temptress. 

_She's a suspect,_ he reminds himself as he pretends to read the file. Widowed for the third time in less than a decade. One dead husband is a tragedy, two dead husbands might still be rotten luck, but three, three is a pattern.

"Mrs. Hardyng," he acknowledges her.

She offers him a chary smile. "Detective Snow."

"I am sorry for your loss," he begins, "but I'm going to have to ask you a couple of questions."

She answers every question flawlessly, the exact right mix of emotion and restraint, and he can't detect a single lie or other reason for suspicion. And yet he can't stop looking at her, wondering what lies behind that fresh-faced innocence.

He rubs his beard. "Mrs. Hardyng, were you aware your husband was having an affair?"

She stiffens, but answers without missing a beat. "Yes." Those scorned by dead spouses usually try to lie when first confronted with that ugly truth, but she just sits there, a beautiful tragedy with a sad smile on her face and fire in her eyes. 

By the end of the interrogation, he knows he has nothing on her. Three dead husbands, but he doesn't have any evidence, not even anything close to solid proof that their deaths had unnatural causes. Three healthy men in their primes, all mysteriously dead and Sansa née Stark, turned Royce, turned Baratheon, turned Hardyng their only connection. 

* * *

Jon could have called her to inform her that they were closing the investigation. But he happened to be in the neighbourhood, and it didn't seem like much of a hassle to drive a couple of blocks to go and see her and tell her personally.

He lights another cigarette, suddenly second-guessing his decision. He only finishes half of it before he stubs it out. _Ah, fuck it._ He's here now.

The house is large and impressive in an overwhelming way. The word histrionic comes to mind as he walks over the threshold, the type of house he wouldn't be able to afford with an income five times the amount of his current paychecks. The maid asks him to wait, disappearing up the stairs, returning a couple of minutes later to lead him up to the second floor, directing him to a pair of white double doors. 

Jon steps into the largest bathroom he's ever seen. There are several sinks with gilded taps, a chaise-longue littered with pillows and towels and a dressing table, but he doesn't take much note of them. His eyes are immediately drawn to the centerpiece, an enormous, blindingly shiny free-standing white bathtub mounted on four almost life-sized gilded lion claws.

Sansa Hardyng is lying back against a pink pillow, her red hair spilling over the edges of the tub and floating on the water, obscuring his view of the skin that is not covered by the foamy water. One arm is hanging down the side of the tub, fingers loosely gripping a glass of what looks like champagne.

"Mrs. Hardyng," he says to get her attention. 

She offers him a lazy smile as she lifts the glass to her lips, propping a dainty foot up on the edge of the tub. "Detective Snow," she greets him. There's a huskiness to her voice that wasn't there in the interrogation room. He lowers his eyes to glare at the feet of the bathtub.

"It's ugly, isn't it?" she asks him.

He clears his throat and glances up at her, arching an eyebrow. 

"The tub," she specifies. "It belonged to my second husband. I always intended to get rid of it, but it's become a luxury I can't bear to miss."

To his complete shock, delight and mortification, she rises to climb out of the tub with an effortless grace that offers him a view at parts of her he's loath to admit he's been imagining late at night for the last couple of weeks. She walks over to the chaise-longue to pick up a soft pink robe of the gauziest material he's ever seen, trimmed with baby blue frills. 

He forces himself to tear his eyes away from the way the transparent fabric is clinging to her wet skin as she walks over to him to offer him a glass of champagne, meeting her eyes instead. He accepts the glass and it sits awkwardly in his hand.

"We've closed the case," he tells her. "Your husband died of unknown natural causes."

She nods gravely, lifting her own newly filled glass, before tipping it over and spilling half of its contents on the floor between them. "To Harry," she toasts solemnly before bringing the bubbly drink to her plump lips and emptying the glass.

"To Harry," he mutters, bewilderedly following her example. 

"Will you join me for dinner, detective?"

He rubs the back of his neck, hesitating, even though he wants to accept her invitation.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, looking at her feet. "I didn't mean to impose, but I get so terribly lonely all alone in this big house."

She glances up at him and he knows that he's lost. How could he ever say no to that face, to those eyes?

* * *

Sansa's queen-sized four poster bed is almost as ridiculous-looking as the bathtub, Jon thinks as they stumble into her bedroom, but he's quickly distracted from that assessment as she nips at his lip. He hauls her up against his body, leaving her mouth to suck on her neck as he carries her over to the ludicrous bed.

He deposits her on top of it and she scoots back, teeth grazing her lip as her eyes burn with a hunger to match his own. Ridding himself of his clothes, he climbs up after her, shuddering at her small squeak of delight as he braces himself over her. 

She gasps his name when he rips her blue dress open down the middle. He takes a moment to look at her, marvelling in her beauty, displaying a patience and appreciation for anticipation he lacked only moments ago. 

"I'm sorry, darling," he growls into her ear as he covers her body with his own. "You've been testing me all evening. There's only so much a man can take."

She giggles as she pulls on his hair, opening her mouth to lick and kiss at the skin stretching over the side of his neck, sucking on his pulse point. 

He devours her with his hands and mouth before he lowers himself onto his stomach between her invitingly spread legs. 

"Fuck," she keens when he gives her that first lap up her dripping slit. He reaches for her hand, twining their fingers together as he feasts on her sweet, eager cunt until she's screaming his name.

He climbs up her body to kiss her and let her taste herself on his lips and tongue, and she whimpers his name again.

"Yes, darling?" he asks, even though it's hard to focus, as hard and aching as he is for her right now. 

"Jon, will you promise to be true to me?" she whispers. "Will you promise to always be mine?"

He blinks and frowns down at those pleading blue eyes. He barely knows her, and even though the case is closed, he hasn't been able to quell his own suspicions yet, but there is nothing he wouldn't say or do to get inside of her right now, so he makes his promise.

When he sinks into her slick and welcoming tight heat, he thinks he would have gladly given up his life for this. 

* * *

It takes Jon eight months to gather the courage to ask Sansa whether she killed her husbands. She's lying in his arms, her back to his chest, and he's twirling a strand of auburn hair around his finger. 

"I didn't have to," she answers him after a moment of silence. 

She must be able to feel how his breath hitches and his heart skips a beat when he hears that answer. He gulps. "You mean to say someone else did it for you?"

"No."

He releases her hair, hesitantly squeezing her elbow. "I don't understand."

She turns around in his arms, staring at his chest before she looks up to meet his eyes. "You would never betray me, would you, Jon?"

He studies her face and frowns. "Sansa," he hisses, pinching the bridge of his nose to steady himself before he continues. "I'm a detective! You can't ask me to cover up three murders!" He would though, for her. 

To his surprise, she smiles. "That's not what I meant," she says, shaking her head. "I already told you I didn't kill them. But, you wouldn't betray me, right, like they did?"

Waymar Royce, Joffrey Baratheon and Harrold Hardyng were all having an affair at the time of their deaths. Three husbands, and all of them were unfaithful to her. He pulls her closer, cupping her cheek as he holds her watery blue gaze. "Never," he vows vehemently.

She nods and kisses him, smiling against his lips as he can taste the salt of a spilled tear on her own. When they part, she gives him a light shove to roll him onto his back so she can rest her head on his chest.

"It's my curse," she mutters into his chest hair. "You all want me, but I'm never enough for any of you."

He wraps an arm around her shoulders to pull her close and presses a fierce kiss to her hair. "They were fools," he growls. "You are more than enough, you're everything."

"Not to them," she says sadly. "They were unfaithful, so the curse killed them." She disentangles herself from his embrace and props herself up on an elbow to look down at him. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"I, um," he starts, hesitantly, reaching up to brush back the mass of hair that's falling over her face and shoulders. "I don't understand what you're trying to say."

She shrugs. "I'm trying to tell you exactly what I said. They were all unfaithful to me, and they all died, days after I found out."

"Is that a threat?" he asks, halfheartedly trying to make light of the situation.

"No, it's a wa-well, no, not really a warning either." A deep crease has appeared in her forehead, and Jon wants to smooth it away with his fingers. He doesn't believe in curses and other such nonsense, but Sansa is clearly worried about this. 

"I believe that you are better than them," she sniffs. Tears are brimming her eyes again. "I need you to be better than them. I can't lose you."

"You won't," he assures her.

She bites her lips and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "I think I love you."

"You think?" he chuckles.

"I've never been in love before," she confesses. "I'm not sure what it's supposed to feel like."

He reaches for her and flips them over, bracing himself over her and leaning down to kiss her. He pulls away to meet her eyes and brushes his thumb over her cheekbone. 

"I love you," he whispers roughly. "I'm yours, only yours, and nothing is going to happen to me. Stop worrying."

Her answering smile is radiant, and she slings her arms around his neck to tug him back down for another kiss. 

"I believe you," she murmurs against his lips. 


End file.
